A War Inside My Head
by CamsthiSky
Summary: Dick is tired and sick and his family takes care of him.


"What if I poke him?" someone murmurs.

"If you do that, he's going to hit you," someone else says.

"He wouldn't hit me. It's _Dick."_ The first voice pauses. "And besides, he'd totally poke me, too."

"No, _I'd_ do it to you. Or Damian, or Steph. But not Dick."

"Yes, Todd," a new voice chimes in, though it sounds reluctant. "Grayson would most likely dote on the sight of you drooling on your pillow."

Someone snickers. "Oh my God. Now I can't stop picturing it."

"Shut it if you know what's good for you, Damian. You, too, Tim."

The voices are invading his dreams, Dick realizes. He can't match voices to names or faces, but they sound familiar enough that Dick figures he's not in any danger. And honestly, Dick's tired enough to sleep for _days._

He just wishes the voices would get the memo.

Someone tuts. "Like you could take me down."

"I will shoot you."

"Leave him alone, Jay."

"And what's up with that? Since when are you on the _Demon Brat's_ side?"

"Since he stopped Bruce from throwing out all of my coffee."

"What—do I even _want_ to know?"

"I thought it might be a fruitful investment. I turned out to be correct."

Dick forces his eyes open, and he blinks blearily up at the trio standing in the middle of the living room, just inches away from the couch Dick had collapsed on when he'd gotten back to the Manor earlier. None of them are looking at him, and while they're all being relatively quiet, it isn't quiet enough for Dick. He's tired, and as much as he'd normally love for his little brothers to be in the same room and talking and _not killing each other_ , now is kind of a bad time.

He just wants to sleep, preferably without any little brothers interrupting his first rest in over 48 hours.

"If you're gonna talk, do it somewhere else," Dick tells them, half his face smooshed against a couch pillow, slightly muffling his slurred words. "'M tryna sleep."

Jason doesn't miss a beat. "Then why aren't you in your _bed_ , Goldie? The couch isn't exactly the best place to crash."

"Wasn't gonna make it," Dick murmurs, eyes sliding closed.

It's quiet long enough that Dick is able to slip back into a doze, and he can almost convince himself that Jason, Tim and Damian have left the room with use of bat-training. Except, he can still feel their eyes on him, and it's annoying.

Dick makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat, and without opening his eyes again, asks, "What?"

"Nothing," Tim says, but it's too quick. "Just—what did you mean by that?"

"By what?"

"When you said you wouldn't make it to your bed."

Dick sighs, and pushes himself up on his elbow. They're still huddled, but they look more concerned than amused now—well. Tim does. Damian looks indifferent, but that's just his usual _I'm-interested-and-worried-but-I'll-never-admit-it_ expression, so Dick counts it. Jason just looks...odd.

Yeahhhh, Dick's not touching that look with a ten-foot pole. Moving on.

"I've been working a case," Dick says. "I just finished an' I'm tired, so if you want me off this couch you're gonna hafta carry me, 'cause I'm not moving."

Tim frowns. "What case?"

"And why wasn't I involved?" Damian asks, arms crossing over his chest.

Jason doesn't say anything.

Dick sighs. "A drug dealer made it big in Blüdhaven and worked his way to Gotham, but I didn't realize he was coming here until I was just about to bust him. Besides, all of you have been busy."

At least, that's what they'd told him when he'd requested a movie night the day before he started tailing the guy.

"How long were you after this guy?" Jason sounds interested, which is, again, odd. Jason doesn't usually care what Nightwing does as long as he stays out of Red Hood's way. Which Dick had. Or maybe Jason's just interested in the guy because he's a drug dealer in Gotham. It seems like the sort of thing Jason would get worked up about, given that at some point Jason had his hands on half of Gotham's criminal underbelly.

"I was tailing him for two days," Dick tells him. "And I took him down—" a glance at the clock, "—about two hours ago. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to go back to sleep."

Dick collapses back on the couch again, ready to drift back to sleep. Hopefully now that their curiosity is satisfied, his little brothers will go away and be nice to each other.

Unfortunately, his brothers have other ideas. They start murmuring to each other, like they think Dick can't hear him. He's _right here,_ though, and yes. He can hear every word they're saying to each other.

"Should we tell him?" Tim asks. He sounds conflicted.

"He's sleep deprived," Jason says. "Mr. happy-go-lucky is grumpier than I've ever seen him."

"It's only two days," Tim argues. "I've gone longer."

Damian scoffs. "Yes, well he's not _you,_ Drake."

"He's going to find out the moment he turns on the news, anyways."

"Y'know I can hear you, right?" Dick asks, but then he sighs, cracking his eyes open again. "Why're you guys even here?"

Tim hesitates, but when Jason and Damian aren't forthcoming, his shoulders droop. "It's, uh. There's been a breakout out from Arkham, and Bruce wants all hands on deck."

Dick's rolling off the couch and onto his feet before Tim's even finished talking. He runs his hand down his face and blinks rapidly trying to get his bearings. Going from lying to standing in two seconds hadn't been the smartest idea. "Just give me a sec," Dick tells them.

Tim looks unsure. "Dick—"

"Yeah, I don't think so, Dickiebird," Jason says, pushing him back down to sit on the couch. Dick can't seem to put up much resistance, so he goes down compliantly. "We can handle this."

Dick frowns. "But Bruce said-"

"Bruce also doesn't know you're running on fumes," Tim counters.

"Contrary to what you think, we _can_ handle this without you, Grayson," Damian says. "Sleep."

"Wow," Tim says, and his eyes are wide and completely mocking. Looks like the coffee saving has been forgotten. "That almost sounded like you care."

"Nonsense," Damian sniffs. "Grayson would just be a hindrance, is all."

Dick knows that Damian's just covering for what he thinks is weakness, but Dick also knows that Damian's right. After spending the past two days tailing his drug dealer with hardly any sleep, Dick's worn out. He wouldn't be at the top of his game, and he'd be sloppy. More than likely, he'd get seriously injured and someone would have to bail him out.

"Right," Dick says. "You guys go then. I'll stay and keep Alfie company."

Jason huffs out a laugh that says that he doesn't _quite_ believe Dick. "Right, sure. How about this. You stay here, make sure we don't have to save your ass, and tomorrow night, after we finish clean up, maybe we can have that movie night you wanted."

"I want to pick the movie," Damian says immediately, a scowl across his face again. "I refuse to be subjected to another Disney movie. Or another documentary."

Tim shoots Damian a nasty look. "That was one time."

Dick laughs quietly, his lips quirking up in a smile. "That sounds nice, Jay. Promise I won't run off."

A chime sounds, and Tim pulls out his phone. "Uh oh. B's down in the Cave, and he's _not_ happy."

Jason rolls his eyes. "Is he ever?" Jason asks. "I swear, there's a stick up Bruce's ass, and nothing anyone does is going to get it out of there."

Damian tuts again. "Todd, have a little more respect."

"For who? Bruce? You're kidding, right?"

Damian sweeps out of the room, and Jason follows him, their argument fading into indistinct murmurs as they head towards Bruce's study. Tim, though. Tim stays, and he turns to Dick. He looks a little hesitant, but not in a bad way, so Dick waits until Tim's figured out what he needs to say.

"You're going to stay, right?"

Dick nods. "I'll stay. I won't be much use to you out there."

"You know, we were worried."

"About me?"

Tim hums an affirmative. "You've been working a lot of cases without us."

Dick smiles. It's weary, but genuine. "I'm okay, Tim." And he is. There has just been a lot for him to do, the same way that Bruce and Tim have both been frantically trying to keep up with everything. "You should go. They're going to need you."

"Sure," Tim says easily, though his eyes tell Dick that this conversation is far from over. "I'll see you when I get back. Make sure you get some rest."

Dick waves as Tim exits the room, calling a "Stay safe!" after him.

And then it's just Dick sitting on a couch, and he's suddenly very, very awake. Even if he can't put on his uniform, he still wants to help out. He'll find Alfred, and he'll wait for everyone to come back home, safe and sound. And after that, he'll sleep.

* * *

"Do you think he's actually going to stay?" Stephanie asks as she adjusts her cowl, looking over to where Tim's fiddling with his bandoliers. "He can be really stubborn when he wants to."

"He'll stay," Tim says quietly. "I think he's knows that he isn't up for this."

"If you say so," Stephanie says, wishing that she could feel as sure as Tim does.

Bruce enters, cowl up, and it's all business. "Let's go," Batman growls, and then they're all off, ready to beat in some bad guys' faces, and Stephanie forces herself to forget about Dick Grayson being too tired to force himself to save the day, to pretend like it's not going to eat her up inside.

* * *

Dick doesn't even last an hour before he falls asleep again, this time in Bruce's computer chair.

But even if he's sleeping, it's not peaceful. His head feels heavy. There's a buzz in the back of his mind, and his skull is thumping with every beat of his heart. All in all, a very miserable existence. He wonders if it's from the sleep deprivation or if this is something entirely different. Maybe he's getting sick.

"Master Richard?" Alfred calls, prodding Dick back into wakefulness, just like he used to when Dick was a kid waiting for Batman to get back after a particularly nasty nightmare. "Are you sure you would not be more comfortable in your own bed?"

"'M fine, Alfie," Dick tells him. "I wanna wait for Bruce an' the others to get back."

Alfred looks troubled, but he doesn't argue. "If you are sure."

Alfred leaves, off to clean and worry, and worry and clean, and maybe find some time to cook in between, just like he always does whenever anyone goes out ever. But it's especially hard for him on nights like this, where _everyone's_ called out into the night, and Dick finds himself in the exact same position.

He hates it, and he can't understand how Alfred's managed to do it night after night for so many years. Dick would die from worry alone.

Dick falls asleep—again—to those thoughts, and the next time he wakes up, he's being shaken, worried blue eyes staring down at him from Bruce Wayne's face—he's still in costume, but sans cowl. Bruce's hand comes out of nowhere and sweeps his hair out of his face. Dick can't help but lean into the touch.

"Dick," Bruce whispers. "Bed time."

"'S everyone okay?"

"Tim has a scratch on his cheek, and Jason hit his funny bone accidentally when he elbowed a guy in the face."

"That's it?" Dick asks.

"That's it," Bruce confirms. "No one's hurt, Dick, so go to sleep."

Dick scrunches up his face. "I _was_ asleep."

"Bed," Bruce orders, but it's gentle. Nothing like his orders in costume, that's for sure. There's this undertone of worry, but Dick still can't force himself to disobey—he wonders what that says about him. "Now."

Dick hums in agreement. "That sounds nice," Dick sighs, his eyes drooping shut. "But I dunno if I can get there by myself."

There's silence for a moment, and then Bruce is in front of him again, freshly showered and dressed in sweats and a t-shirt. Dick wonders how long he'd actually closed his eyes for, because it felt like seconds. Definitely not long enough for Bruce to get out of the costume, scrub himself down, and throw some clothes on.

Then Bruce is levering him up, throwing Dick's arm around his shoulder, until Dick's standing, dead weight against Bruce's mass. Bruce practically drags him up the stairs and to his bedroom, and Dick thinks he should probably help somewhat, but his feet have decided that they don't work anymore, because he can't seem to get them underneath him.

Bruce only stops once they reach Dick's bedroom. Dick's still more asleep than awake when his face hits his pillow, and by the time he realizes that Bruce is trying to get Dick underneath the blanket, he's too far gone to care.

Dick passes out before Bruce even finishes tucking him in.

* * *

Everyone's relieved that Dick doesn't sneak out of the Cave, but they're also really worried. Tim, though, he's not sure what to make of this situation. Because it isn't supposed to be _Dick_ that's forced to stay behind because he's too tired. That's usually Tim's job.

But after seeing how tired Dick was the night before, Tim's not surprised that Dick's not at breakfast the next morning. He worries his bottom lip, thinking about _how_ Dick got so tired in the first place.

Jason shoots him a _look_ from across the dining table, one that says he knows exactly what Tim's thinking, and that he better knock it off. Well, _tough._ Jason might like to pretend that he isn't attached to this mess that's their family, but Tim accepted it a long time ago. There's no point in denying it now.

Damian comes in as Alfred is placing down a plate of omelets in front of Tim. The kid takes note of the people in the room—just Tim, Jason, Alfred—and sniffs in what everybody but Dick would call disdain (Dick would call it concern, but Tim just can't see it).

"Where is Grayson?" Damian asks, settling in a few chairs down from Jason.

Jason stabs a pancake with his fork. "Sleeping."

Damian scowls. "Still?"

"He was dead tired," Tim points out, frowning. "And I saw Bruce dragging him to bed after we all came home. I was going to check on him after breakfast." He lets Alfred top off his orange juice. "Thanks, Alfred."

Alfred smiles. "You're quite welcome, Master Timothy. As for Master Richard, give him a few more hours to sleep off his exhaustion. From what I understand, he's been under quite a bit of stress lately. He could use the rest."

Tim frowns harder, Damian does that weird pouting-scowling thing he does whenever he's worried about Dick, and Jason sighs into his hands. If Bruce were here, he'd be brooding over Alfred's words, wondering just how _much_ time he should give Dick before he went and sounded the alarm bells.

But that's Bruce, and while Tim is more than capable of waiting two or three hours before checking in on his brother, he doesn't really want to. He wonders if it would be so wrong to check on Dick _now,_ and if he's still in bed, Tim doesn't really see the harm in slipping under the covers and spending a day lazing about _._ God knows he _deserves_ it.

So Tim says, "Sure, Alfred," and makes a mental note to check on Dick right after he finishes his breakfast, ignoring the disbelieving snort from Jason and the knowing look from Damian. He knows that Alfred probably knows that he's lying, but the butler doesn't call him out on it, so he's pretty much in the clear.

They're all worried, and Dick sleeping isn't going to deter Tim from checking on him.

Now, to finish this omelet.

* * *

Dick's dreams don't quite make sense, even with dream logic intact.

He's not Nightwing, he's Batman again, the weight of the cape and the cowl and the world sitting on his shoulders. A weight Bruce seems to hold up so easily. A weight that Dick never quite could. But it's back, and it's heavy. That's not the part that doesn't make sense though.

What he doesn't get is why there are _three_ Robins, now. Damian and Tim, he gets, but Jason's put the costume back on, too, and that doesn't sit well with Dick at all. He doesn't know why, but it feels wrong.

All the same, he accepts the burden. He accepts the weight of the cape pulling him down deeper into the abyss, the responsibility of watching out for Robin—the Rob _ins_ —and making sure that they don't have to do what he made sure Robin was for all those years ago. Bruce isn't under the cowl, and Dick won't ask of them the same Bruce asked of him.

They aren't fighting anybody, but Dick's covered in blood, and he doesn't understand why. They're in the Cave, haven't left, but Jason and Tim and Damian—all thirteen years old—are looking at Dick like he just killed a man.

And then Bruce is holding Dick's face between his blood-slicked hands, and Dick's not sure what's happening. He just knows that somehow, _somehow_ , it's his fault.

Bruce pulls back his lips and _snarls,_ telling Dick, " _You did this to me. You did this to them,"_ and over Bruce's shoulder are Jason and Tim and Damian looking at him like he's just killed a man, because he did. He killed a man and three kids, and it's his fault. All his fault.

He's covered in blood. All five of them are covered in blood, but only four out of five of them are bleeding heavily from bullet holes all over their bodies. And it's Dick that's holding a gun. Bruce grips Dick's face harder. Dick shoots. Again and again and again, and he's afraid.

And then it replays all over again.

Dick kills his family six times over before he turns the gun on himself.

* * *

"Did you know he had a fever?" Damian demands, stomping into Bruce's study. He looks absolutely _thunderous_ , and Bruce honestly doesn't blame him, because there's that clenching in his own gut that's only there when one of his kids are hurt or ill. When Bruce doesn't answer, Damian takes another step closer. " _Did you know."_

Bruce sighs, dropping his pen and leaning back in his chair. "He was warm last night when I checked on him, but Alfred told me it spiked this morning."

Damian's quiet for a moment, staring at the floor. "What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know," Bruce admits. "But I'm trying to find out."

* * *

In the end, Dick sleeps almost 13 hours (a few spent with different siblings slipping under the blankets with him, he'll find out later), and a glance out the window to see the sun streaming through tells him that it's sometime in the afternoon by the time Dick finally shakes off the remains of unconsciousness.

Barely.

He's still unbelievably tired, and he really doesn't want to get up. In fact, it'd just be so much easier to fall back into slumber, and Dick's eyes fall shut again without his express permission. Before he knows it, he's dozing.

"Dick," Bruce whispers, startling Dick into opening his eyes again, and he blinks up at Bruce. It's déjà vu, Dick thinks, because he thinks that they've done this dance once before—only Dick had had a lot less sleep then, because there'd been a lot more confusion.

"Bruce?" Dick croaks, squinting up at his dad. "What're you doin' in here?"

"It's time to get up. You need to eat something."

Dick frowns, and tries to think through the sleepy haze still clouding his brain. "I don't think I'm hungry. I had a weird dream and I think it's making me sick."

"I still want you to try."

"There were three Robins," Dick says, because for some reason he needs Bruce to understand.

Bruce has gone from soft and gentle to unhappy, almost in an instant, and Dick wonders if it was something he'd said. "Dick," Bruce says, his voice taking on a harsher edge. "You need to eat. If you don't, I'm going to call Leslie."

Well, Dick isn't sure of a lot of things right now, but he's sure he doesn't want _that._ So he levers himself up and blinks against the black dots dancing in front of his eyes. Lots of blinking today, it seems. "I'll eat," he tells Bruce. "Don't call Leslie."

"Good," Bruce says, his voice soft again. He grabs a bowl of soup from the tray sitting on Dick's bedside table and hands it to Dick. He takes the bow from Bruce with shaking hands, but he manages to get more than five bites into his mouth before the urge to vomit hits.

Dick drops the spoon into the bowl. "I think I'm gonna be sick," he whispers.

Bruce is quick. He grabs the bowl, sets it down, and grips Dick's bicep all within a second, and then he's pulling Dick to his stumbling feet and leading him to the private bathroom in his room. Dick's in front of the toilet retching into the bowl seconds later, his stomach spasming painfully.

The entire time, Bruce is there. Rubbing his back, running his fingers through Dick's hair, keeping up quiet murmuring that Dick can't really pay attention to right now. It's comforting, and Dick's exhausted enough that the eating and the retching are enough to have him leaning his sweaty face against the cool porcelain of the bathtub beside him.

"I don't feel good," Dick mutters, because he's not sure what else to say. He just wants to feel good again. "What's wrong with me?"

"Stress," Bruce tells him, his fingers brushing his damp hair away from his face. "You're stressed out, and your body couldn't handle it."

"I've been stressed before and it's never been like this."

"Your immune system's weaker because you haven't been sleeping, Dick. You've been running yourself into the ground, and now it's biting you in the ass."

"Language."

"I don't think I need a lecture on cursing from you of all people," Bruce says, his voice light and teasing and gentle in a way it hasn't been in so, _so_ long. Since before Jason, maybe. Or maybe before _that_ , even. It wasn't like Dick and Bruce had really been on speaking terms when Jason came into their lives, after all.

Dick swallows back the tears threatening to prick at his eyes. "I'm tired, Bruce."

"I know," is all Bruce says, and they stay in the bathroom like that for a really long time.

* * *

Damian slips into Grayson's bedroom that evening, and he stops cold. Because Father is lying there on the bed, Grayson curled up into his side, fast asleep, and Damian thinks that maybe he should back up and leave before he interrupts an intimate moment between his father and his oldest brother.

But Father catches him before he can go anywhere, and Damian walks towards the bed reluctantly at his father's nod.

Damian's gaze flicks to Grayson and before he can really process the fact that he's saying anything, Damian asks, "Is he alright?"

Father sighs. "It's stress. He's doing better, but Alfred says it'll probably be another day of sleeping off exhaustion."

Damian nods, and then hesitates again before asking, "Would it be alright it…?"

"Come here, Damian," Father says, and he lifts up his other arm, the one not wrapped around Grayson, and Damian takes the offer before it can be rescinded. They stay like that for a while, and Damian can't find it in him to be humiliated about the position.

* * *

When Dick wakes up again, it takes him a moment to understand why he's so warm. Burning almost. He's settled against someone's—Bruce's—chest, and both his and Bruce's body heat underneath the covers is almost too much to bear, and it—it's not something Dick can really comprehend. Because Dick's curled up next to Bruce plenty of times before, and never before has it been this hot.

"Stop squirming," Bruce says out of the blue, his voice rumbling in his chest underneath Dick's cheek, and Dick's even _more_ confused. Because he isn't even moving. But then Bruce speaks up again, exasperation clear in his voice, "Damian. Stop."

"Tell Drake to keep away from me, then," Damian sneers. "He keeps elbowing me."

"I wouldn't if you would stop taking up so much of the bed," Tim hisses, and there's a commotion from the other side of the bed that Dick can only really listen to. He's too tired to raise his head, and he'd had that unsettling dream once again.

It's almost like feels like there's something crawling beneath his skin, something heavy weighing down both his body and his mind.

"Shut up," a new voice says, but this one is from farther away. It's Jason, and Dick thinks he sounds like he's sitting at the desk in the corner of his bedroom. "You're gonna wake Dick up."

" _You're_ going to wake Dick up," Tim shoots back, but there's no heat behind the words.

"You're all too late," Bruce says, amusement in his voice, and Dick finally raises his head to see Bruce looking down at him eyebrow raised. "Good morning, Dick."

"It's eleven pm," Tim protests from somewhere on the other side of Bruce.

Bruce hums but he doesn't correct himself. Instead he just squeezes Dick a little closer to his comfort and Dick lays his head back down on his dad's chest, feeling a sudden urge to cry. He doesn't know if it's because he's surrounded by his family or if it's because he's still feeling sick, but the tears prick at his eyes nevertheless.

"Is he actually awake this time?" Damian asks, sounding skeptical.

"Will all of you be quiet?" Steph cries from somewhere beyond the bed and on the floor. "Me and Cass are trying to sleep."

Jason snorts. "You're playing Go Fish."

There's silence after that besides a little bit of muffled laughter from Cass, but for the most part the room goes quiet, and Dick feels himself start to relax under Bruce's hand rubbing up and down his back.

"Go back to sleep, Dick," Bruce says quietly. "We'll all be here when you wake up again."

And Dick, well. He believes Bruce. He relaxes fully, that something underneath his skin settling down for the moment with the knowledge of his family surrounding him, some of them not even an arm's length away.

Dick falls asleep, and when he wakes up again, it's to Bruce holding him. To Jason sneaking him worried glances from over by the desk. To Tim crawling from one side of the bed in order to lie on Dick's other side. To Damian hiding concern behind raised hackles and cruel words only directed towards Tim and Jason and Steph. To Stephanie cracking lame jokes with a full belly laugh. To Cass sitting at the end of the bed resting a comforting hand on his blanket covered foot. To Alfred opening up the door and serving them all breakfast up in Dick's room.

They're all here, and Dick, even if he doesn't feel ready to shake off his exhaustion and sickness and face the world yet, feels safe with his family surrounding him.


End file.
